


In the Middle of the Night

by Ballistic_Vixen



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Getting to Know Each Other, Half-Vampire! Frank Castle, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Suicide mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-01 10:04:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18333770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ballistic_Vixen/pseuds/Ballistic_Vixen
Summary: You're one of "New York's Finest", on your way home like any other day. When you hear a noise, and can't help the sick curiosity that drives you to check it out. What you find in the alleyway changes your life forever.





	1. Taste

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I want to express that I really love Frank Castle, and I wanted to take some time to explore his character. I hope you enjoy reading this. At the time being the reader can be read as any gender. It might change though, depending on how well I can write it, or not at all.

 

There was something about New York City at night. The sun went down hours and hours ago, and the moon is high, but the buildings keep the dark night bright, like a million lighthouses at a busy seaside. Well, it was named the City that Never Sleeps, after all. Lights in the sky paint artificial stars against a black canvas, and you’re walking in the middle of it.

You like to imagine yourself as Moses, parting the Red Sea, but instead you’re an officer, walking home after a long shift at the precinct. Somehow, when you weren’t chasing down criminals or helping Detective Mahoney with his investigations or avoiding getting shot and killed, you were able to get lost in the ocean that surrounds you. It’s so close, you could almost feel it, touch it with the tips of your fingers, but no one can touch light… it touches you.

You’re lost in thought, staring up at the concrete trees, the way they loom over you, almost appearing to curve above you. As though one hard gust of wind would be all that it would take to push the building over, and crush anything below it. It makes your stomach turn. But, it isn’t really a bad feeling. Almost like the feeling you get when hitting a dip in the road, while driving down a straight away, or plummeting at high speeds on a rollercoaster ride. You glance every so often to check where you’re walking, keeping an ear out for anything suspicious, or just _off_. Anything that isn’t a part of your normal walk home.

Then you feel it, something thick in the air, and whatever it is, a noise follows. A thud. Shortly after, a low groan.

You stop, dead in your tracks, and ever so slowly turn your head in the direction of the sounds you heard. So faint, part of your mind tries to convince you that you’re hearing things, that you should just keep walking, but your gut tells you otherwise. Your eyes scan the dark alleyway, trying to catch a glimpse of anything, to no avail. With practiced movements you approach the entrance into what could be your death, taking your gun out of your holster and a small tactical flashlight out of your pocket.

And there it is. That awful pit in your stomach that is hungry to swallow every bit of good feelings in your body. Your heart rate slightly increases, your hands tighten around the handle of your gun and flashlight, not knowing what could soon be on the other end of the barrel.

You love it. Even if you know your mind was screaming to run, your body always tells you to fight, to push forward, and sometimes you just had to shut your thoughts off, and let your instincts take control. Probably not the best kind of mindset for a police officer, but it was why you became one. You enjoy that rush.

You take your time going down the narrow path, checking corners and surveying high and low for threats and for the source of what you heard earlier. All you can hear now is the soft crunch of your boots against the dirt and debris. Then, your flashlight sweeps across him, or what you assume is a him. Hard to tell when your light reflects the deep red that blankets the man’s skin. You get the impression it isn’t all his. He isn’t moving, and it looks like he isn’t breathing. After reholstering your gun and sticking the flashlight in your mouth to free up both of your hands, you quickly move to roll him over onto his back, crouching down and resting your hands on his shoulders.

Next thing you know, you’re being pinned against the brick wall, the flashlight was knocked out of your mouth from impact, now rocking on the pavement below you, and your own knife, that is suddenly missing from your utility belt, is being pressed against your neck and red orbs stare deep into your soul. _Shit_ , you think, it was just your luck to run into a vampire. But you could see the cuts and bruises on his face, the blood draining from his wounds, and you let out the breath you just realized you were holding in. Or maybe he isn’t a vampire. His arm feels hot against you, even through the layers of clothing, and that is definitely not normal for a vampire.

He presses into you more roughly, bringing your attention back to the matter at hand, you’re being held at knife point. But you get the feeling you don’t need to worry. He looks like the kind of man that would have killed you already if he planned on killing you. You raise your hands up to show you mean no harm, “l-listen, I don’t want to hurt you.” He doesn’t let up. “I just heard a noise an-and I followed it. I just want to help. I can see you’re hurt.”

Nothing. He only stares at you, looks at every part of your physical form, as if he’s trying to read you. His breathing is labored with a slight wheeze to it, a cough, and a gasp for air, and more coughs, and then blood is splurting from between his lips, his tongue pokes out to lick away the liquid rubies. Some of it lands on your face, and while you don’t really mind, you can’t help but cringe in disgust. _Buy me dinner first_ , you think with some remorse, but not an ounce of hatred.

“Hey,” he snaps his eyes back to you, tightens his hold on you, presses the knife a little closer—as if he’s trying to make up for his show of weakness. “I’m _not_ gonna hurt you”. He breathes, looking at your face and down to your chest, and you can tell he's just trying to listen. His breathing gets harder and his lips form a tight line, and he shoves you back against the wall. He reaches to your gun and takes it out of the holster, checking to make sure the safety is on, and shows you that he’s tucking it into the back of his pants. Settling into a half kneel in front of you.

“Fine,” he coughs again, it sounds less like gurgling blood. You notice he still has your knife. Collateral, you assume, in case you try anything. But everything else is too much to process, because you’re still reeling from his voice. Low, gruff, like he’s been screaming his whole life and his vocal chords got shot to hell, like it would be impossible for him to say anything in a higher octave, like he doesn’t know what his voice does to you. But he does, because you hear him chuckling, it’s quiet, and another cough. He spits out the blood that came up with it. “Where to?”

“The hospital,” you blurt out, trying to hide your embarrassment.

“No… hospitals are cops,” at the moment he’s not looking at you, to the side, the floor, like he’s trying his best to ignore something, and you can’t tell what.

“I’m a cop.”

“Yeah? Well not a very good one,” he waves your knife at you tauntingly.

“Ouch,” you scoff. _The nerve of this man_ . You wonder, why did you have to get yourself into this situation in the first place. “Okay, _Asshole_ , where would you prefer?”

“Not my place, don’t trust you.” You roll your eyes and get up to help him off of the ground. He grabs your hand and grunts as he pulls himself up, thanks to your support. But he doesn’t say thank you.

“My place then,” you murmur, and put his arm around your shoulders, helping him stay up as much as you can, half walking and half dragging him through the alleyways to your apartment. You finally reach the back door to a tall building you call home. You shift his weight a little bit so you can grab the keycard from your back pocket, and manage to unlock the door with little trouble. You’re shuffling towards the elevator when he stops, and in turn, you stop. You turn to look at him and he nods towards the stairs. “I am not, and I mean, NOT, dragging your ass up seventeen flights.” He’s not happy with your response and you swear you see him sulk, or whatever sulking looks like for a grown, beaten man. You choose to ignore him, but you can’t ignore how hot he feels against you, or the way his breath fans against your ear.

“You remind me a lot of my friend, Curt,” he says low and slow. You try to ignore that, too. The elevator dings down to the main floor, and when the doors open, an elderly lady’s eyes go wide, staring at you with tea saucers for eyes, clutching her purse close to herself. Luckily, the man’s head is slightly slumped over, and you’re thankful for having your uniform on; it makes the situation look somewhat better.

“Excuse us, ma’am,” you say shuffling into the other corner of the elevator, her eyes follow you there, and once you’re settled she finally tears her eyes away from the two of you and rushes out of the confined space.

You finally make it to your apartment—only running into the kind old lady—and guide him to the bedroom. _It would be easier to replace the sheets, than to replace your couch_ , you think quickly. Before he lays down, he grabs the gun out from behind him, checks the safety, and sets it down on the nightstand. He sighs once he sinks into the bed, and it’s almost endearing, almost. Maybe if he wasn’t covered in blood… Whose blood? Who knows. Maybe you should be worried, and arrest him. But you don’t think he’d go easy, and you want to figure out if he _is_ a bad person before jumping the gun, literally. You make your way to the kitchen to get a bowl of warm water and some towels.

As you wait for the faucet to run warm, you try to think about why this man is so familiar. You chew your bottom lip and tap the counter repeatedly.

Abruptly, you hear from your bedroom, “can you shut your worryin’, it’s givin’ me a headache.” You stop your train of thoughts and fill up the bowl with water, turning the faucet off and walking back towards the bedroom with a stop to the bathroom to grab the medkit in one of the cabinets.

You enter the room and see him lapping up the blood on his arms, his fangs poke out past his lips. _Yep_ , you think, _definitely a vampire_ . But you never heard about vampires being able to bleed, _or_ be warm. And yet, he does both of those things. You pass the threshold and set the things down. You go to the side of the bed and help him up into a sitting position, unstrapping the kevlar vest and peeling the bloodied shirt off that was underneath.

You try not to stare. You really do, but it’s hard not to. He’s built, in places you didn’t know people could be, and you think red is a good color on him. Maybe it was time to get laid. You make quick work at cleaning up the blood with a wet towel, so you can assess the damage that was done. There’s several deep cuts and a bullet in his bicep, and so many other scars peppered across his skin. You spill some of the rubbing alcohol from your medkit into the deeper cuts and the bullet hole, and he grunts and groans at the pain he feels. He was really something else; it was weird how your gut felt safe around him. You lean over to grab a needle and thread, but he stops you.

“I need blood.” You blink at him.

“Come again?”

“Don’t play stupid with me. I know you know what I am.”

“And what exactly is that? ‘Cause the last time I checked, vampires don’t bleed!” He gives you a look, looks to the side, then looks back at you. “ _Fine_...you want mine?” He shakes his head.

“Don’t take from good people.”

“Well, Mr. Dark and Mysterious, I can’t exactly go draining a drug cartel of his life juice,” you say as you raise your hands up to start at the top button. He grabs your hands, holding them in place.

“Listen, I don’t take from good people. I take from bad people,” he struggles to get the words out, “and your scent is driving me crazy.” You’ve heard of vampires losing strength when they haven’t had blood in a while, and you try to figure if him bleeding makes it hard for him to stay alive, without having a sip to replenish his own stream. You swear you see his fangs grow longer and his eyes flash red. You’re not sure how to take this new found information, but something about his hungry, desperate look makes you weak. You continue to unbutton your blue top anyway, your last name neatly embroidered on your chest, and you ignore his pitiful whimpers and his eyes seem to look everywhere, but your own.

You stop at the third and shake the shirt off of your right shoulder, and you stare at him. When he doesn’t respond, you clear your throat a little. He finally looks you in the eye and then to your exposed skin.

“You’re gonna regret this,” you know he’s talking to himself. He pulls you—with what strength he has—closer to himself and nuzzles your neck, relishing in your scent. You shiver, ignoring the feeling in your stomach. He moves lower, to your shoulder, where he knows the blood flow is slower. He gives the skin there a tentative lick, to which you let out a breath that you’re too proud to admit was a moan. You bite your lip, and he takes your silence as invitation to keep going.

It’s nothing like you’d imagine. Pain but pleasure. Euphoria had you in a sweet embrace, but adrenaline was knocking on your front door.

You watch, as he drinks, the bullet in his arm pushes out of the wound, and the hole that remained begins to seal up. He moans against your skin, his wounds healed, just pink, raised skin to show for what was there, and now he’s forcing himself to stop. A guttural growl coming from down deep, and he eagerly laps up the stray blood with the flat of his tongue. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t find some pleasure in it.

He pulls away completely, licking his lips and running his tongue over his teeth, swallowing what little there is left. His breathing settles, and his eyes are no longer hungry for blood. But there’s something else in his eyes you can’t really place.


	2. Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading the previous chapter! I'm actually having a lot of fun planning and writing this out, so this chapter came pretty fast.

And then it’s gone. Whatever it was, it’s gone. It was like a glimmer, for two seconds, and then there’s a darkness in his eyes, again. He was right in front of you, and you were right in front of him, far from being alone, but you feel _so_ lonely. It’s a ravenous pit, hungry for every ounce of joy and peace. And you’re not so sure what it is, or why, but you feel a heaviness in your heart—something clutches it in a tight hold.

A single tear rolls down your cheek; your breath gets caught in your lungs.

He stares at you, his eyes seem to sadden. Carefully, he wipes away the tear and mumbles a sorry. And the hold on your heart tightens. You can’t breath. Your vision is swimming, black spots closing in on what you can see, him, and then there’s nothing.

Your eyes open, but it isn’t you that open them.

You feel like you’re sitting in the passenger seat of your own body. Someone else is driving. It’s bright in the room, and a lady walks in. You feel warmth, and then she smiles and you think it’s the best damn thing you’ve ever seen. She calls you sleepyhead. You don’t know who she is. But she knows you, it seems. When she talks it’s all one-sided, and you feel your body reach out a hand to touch her face, a hand that is not your own. You realize you _were_ talking, responding to her quips with your own. And then you’re overwhelmed with pain and longing, but love, most of all. You say something, again, you think, but it’s not your voice.

You gasp awake, shooting up, and frantically look for the lady in your dream. _Maria_ , falls from your lips. There’s tears on you cheeks, but you don’t feel sad, or anything remotely negative. You try to think about what was happening before you were dreaming. Sluggishly, you rub the palms of your hands against your eyes, noticing the blood dried up on your fingers. And then you recall him, a vampire, stocky stature, and the epitome of a man, but you never asked for his name.

You lay back down, and feel weird. Out of place. An alien on another planet. Or a person in the wrong body. You're still in uniform, groaning with the discomfort of sleeping in your work clothes. Lazily, you glance around the room and notice your gun is missing, “that's going to be hard to explain,” you muse to yourself. In place is two words scrawled on a paper. Rather a name and maybe a word, but your brain puts the two together, _Frank Castle_ , it reads, and it’s a name, first and last, and while you’re realizing what it says, it clicks. Like waves crashing down on you, you remember headline, after headline, after headline. Articles written by many big and small name publications, all claiming he was either a terrible person or ‘not as bad as we think he is’. Though, one thing was constant, he was a murderer; he killed. And you think back on the video of the court hearing, and how his rage came out, declaring that he was the Punisher, how he would kill the people he killed again if he had the chance, how he _loved_ it.

But, you think about the dream you just had, and you’re sick to your stomach.

You run to the bathroom, dry heaving into the toilet and choking on nothing. Trying to just, breathe. You can’t. All those feelings of loneliness and dread, and loss and death come back. You’re gasping for air, moving away from the toilet, and instead you sit with your back against the cold wall, knees tucked into your chest, wailing into your crossed arms resting on your knees. Trembling. Your breathing is shaky, your lips quiver because of that feeling that surrounds you. It’s like shadows residing in all the nooks and crannies in the room, crowding you. You feel his pain, and you have no idea why, you try to stop. _You can’t_.

A couple firm knocks on your door—followed by a doorbell ring—is all it takes to sober you up from the abyss, almost instantly the room clears up. You stop crying and listen: a couple more knocks. You get up, grabbing a few tissues on the way, and clean yourself up the best you can. You look through the peephole. It’s Mahoney.

You open the door, just enough for you to see him and him to see you. He stares at you, like he can’t believe what he's looking at, “you look like shit.”

“Yeah…” The two of you stare at each other for a little while longer, then you open the door wider, “want to come in?” He takes the invitation, stepping inside and looks around. You guys aren’t partners, but you were close. You knew him before he became a detective, when all his job was was to deal what was in front of him, not what ran deeper than what was on the surface.

He was the father figure in your life, when you decided to move to the city. Your mom and dad loved you, but they didn't support you becoming a cop, and a cop in New York City? They called you crazy, said it was too dangerous, and when you couldn’t be convinced, your father didn’t want to speak to you anymore. Your mother, while still not approving of your choice, sometimes would get in touch with you, to find out if you were still living, you assumed. All the things she saw on the news would always be the topic of your conversations with her, and you were sure if she saw it, your dad saw it too. But he never calls.

“You want to talk about it?” He asks, and you really wish he didn't. You stand a few feet away from him, arms crossed, bringing your thumb up to your lips to anxiously chew on the side of.

“Someone I- I _care_ about passed away,” you try to push away the feeling forming in your stomach again, “she-I can't describe it. But now that she's gone, its like I have nothing left!. You ever feel like that, Brett?” Your eyes start to become glassy, breathing becomes too hard. He looks you up and down, takes in your appearance and chooses to ignore the blood caked under your nails, or maybe he doesn’t notice that small feature, when the pained expression you have is all he can really see.

“At times, yes. In this field, you lose a lot of good people, people you care about, people you would kill and die for.” Your mind goes to the woman in your dream, and you think about the amount of times Frank had allegedly died and of the number of people he had killed. Mahoney rests his hand on your shoulder, snapping your attention back to him, “it’s okay to feel like this…” You don’t respond, you just stare distantly, towards him, but not at him. “Hey, I was worried about you. You didn’t pick up my calls, you didn't show up at the precinct, and sure you've been late before _and_ you’ve ignored my calls, but never both at the same time. I thought someone finally murked you on your walk home.” He jokes, and you can’t help but give him a smile. You know he was really worried about you..

“Love you, too,” you say weakly.

“How about you take the day off, hm? You already have tomorrow off, give yourself a weekend to recuperate, and be back at it in a few days, okay?” You want to say yes, you want to just die in a hole and not have to feel any of this anymore, but your heart is telling you to go to work. You shake your head no.

“Now, Mahoney, we both know what kind of stupid shit I get myself into when I’m alone for too long,” you both laugh, “I’ll be down at the station in an hour. I’m sorry for making you worry.” He looks at you, and he has this face like he’s going to make you stay home, but the eyes you give him makes him stop.

“Okay… Okay, I’ll see you there.” He leaves and you sigh, letting out all the tension that had built up in your core. What are you going to do? You’re almost positive that you're going crazy with what you've been seeing and feeling, but it all seems so real. As if it’s all your emotions. The dream felt like a memory, and the love and loss feels current. You shake your head, hoping it'll knock some loose pieces back into place, and get ready for work.

There’s another moment where you don’t feel like yourself. It’s like a bug in your programming, because you’re scrubbing at the crusted blood and running your fingers lightly over the puncture holes on your shoulder, and you just freeze. Standing, staring into the mirror. You bend over, cupping the water towards your face, and splashing it lightly, running your hand down your face to wash away something you couldn’t see, but is most definitely there.

You go to the strong box under your bed, always keeping a backup gun in case something ever happened. If someone were to ask why you’re packing different heat, you would just say you felt like switching things up. The new gun was already registered in the system as one of your official firearms for the department anyway. You just pray to no one, that none of the bullet casings, or worse, the gun itself, shows up at a crime scene.

You get dressed, reading the name on the paper, over and over, until the image of it was surely deeply ingrained into your memory. You amuse yourself with the thought of becoming old and senile, and all you can remember is this paper with a name on it. You brush the tips of your fingers along the handwriting, and can’t guess why he even bothered telling you his name. As far as you know, he is a wanted criminal, that is supposed to be dead.

You slip the paper into your wallet loosely, thinking on doing some research on him later. And you're out the door. The walk to work isn't nearly as eventful as it was the night before, nor is it as peaceful. Fun, morning contradictions.

Once at the station, you're called over by Mahoney to go to a scene. A man found dead, one gunshot to the head, gun in hand, apparent suicide, but it was protocol to investigate the scene anyway and to collect any evidence.

You arrive with Mahoney, and time seems to slow. You pass through the threshold, your heart rate increases, your hearing becomes a garbled mess, and everything is suddenly too much. Before you can even find out the name of the dead man, you feel like you're suffocating. And an image of another person in the room appears.

He’s tall, neatly dressed, but you can't get a clear look at his face. You knew then, this wasn’t a suicide. Hell, your instincts were always your best friend, but this was different. You’re seeing too much. Things that aren’t there, and this time you do throw up, luckily making it into the hall before you do.

Mahoney follows you out, asking what the hell happened. You were never one to be squeamish, yet there you were, hunched over a pool of your own bile, staring and debating on letting more of it out.

“I-I don't know…” You think about what you saw again, a man, and the feeling of dread. “I feel like I've been-like this is crazy, Brett, but hear me out, I don’t really g- _get_ it, but I’ve been seeing things, feeling things. But it ain’t all me? Not all my feelings. It makes me sick, makes me… I don't know what it makes me.”

He looks at you, thinks something for a moment and pulls you further away from the apartment. “I _don’t_ know what you're saying, but I think I know who does,” he sighs, frustrated in seeing you this way: helpless, and he knows he can't do anything to make you feel better. He debates for a moment, tapping his foot. He searches for his wallet and finally fishes it out, pulling a business card from one of the many folds. It reads, _Karen Page_ , another familiar name. Touching the card makes you feel better, safe and warm. You look back at Brett, he nods at you to keep the card. With little reluctance, you do. “You're dismissed,” you’re about to retort, but he puts a hand up that shuts you up, “figure your shit out first, officer. Then, you can work.” He turns back and leaves you alone.

On the way home, you read the name on the card, until it, too, is ingrained into your memory, and finally, you make a decision to call the number printed neatly under the name. The the line rings a few times before you hear a sweet voice on the other end.

“Karen Page speaking,” you choke up, “hello?” She doesn’t hang up. Even after a too long moment of silence from your end. Finally, you introduce yourself, giving her your first and last name and stating that you're an officer that works with Detective Mahoney.

“He, uh, he recommended I speak to you? I’ve been having a problem lately.” She hums, seeming to understand, but not entirely.

“Where do you want to meet?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are appreciated! I would like to hear any criticism, or what particular things you liked or disliked. Thanks!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm looking forward to hearing thoughts.


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